Chapter Text
They’ve been in the safe house for fifteen days when it starts snowing.
Martin is in the bedroom at the time, writing. Or rather, he’s chewing on the end of his ballpoint while he attempts to stare the words in his notebook into submission. He’s been agonizing for a good twenty minutes over a description of “warmth” that doesn’t mention the sun, because that’s old hat, and anyway you’d be hard pressed to describe Jon’s personality as sunny. He’s squinting at warm as embers, waiting to be stoked to flame, when the door swings open.
“It’s snowing!” Jon declares; he sounds very pleased about it. Martin turns to the window. Sure enough, it’s snowing: fat flakes falling slow and ponderous past the glass.
“Oh!” he says. “Bit early for snow, isn’t it?”
“Actually it’s known to snow from early October in the Highlands, though it’s not common. Back in 2012 the Cairngorms got their first snow on the twenty-eighth of September.”
“Uh-huh, and did you just know that?”
“No, no,” Jon waves a dismissive hand; he really has been trying his best. “Elspeth from the shop told me the other day. She was warning me how cold it gets, if we’re planning to stay here through the winter.”
“Oh is that what she was saying?” Martin had caught the tail end of the conversation, and heard Elspeth - north of seventy years old and kindly as a grandmother - tell Jon to make sure he kept his young man nice and warm up in that cottage, winking and nudging while the innuendo flew entirely over Jon’s head. Martin stifles a smile; if he lets on, Jon will never be able to look Elspeth in the eye again, and they do need to go shopping sometimes.
He decides to redirect the conversation before it goes any further.
“So, snow?”
“Yes, snow!” Jon says. “It just started - it probably won’t be cold enough to stick, but I thought we could go out and take a walk while it’s falling.”
“Oh, right,” says Martin. He’s not particularly a fan of snow. And he really thinks he’s close to a breakthrough with this poem. But...Jon looks eager. Excited, even. Martin supposes he could do with stretching his legs. He sets the notebook aside and smiles: “Sounds good.”
Martin puts on an extra jumper and his windbreaker before they go out. Neither of them thought to pack gloves or hats in the rush to leave London, but Jon has a soft gray scarf tucked beneath the upturned collar of his heavy coat, his face almost disappearing into it.
The cold hits as soon as they step outside; Martin shivers and tucks his hands into the thin pockets of his jacket. Jon frowns for a moment, the way he does when he’s solving a problem in his head, then he tugs Martin’s left hand out of his pocket, twines it with his own, and tucks both their hands into the deep pocket of his coat.
“Much better,” he says, and starts walking. He doesn’t take them far; there’s a craggy outcrop maybe half a mile from the house that looks over the valley below, and there they stop. It’s a pretty view, with fresh snowfall dusting the landscape, though Martin would rather not be freezing his arse off. It’s worth it, though, for a pleased look on Jon’s face, his dark hair filigreed with snowflakes.
“What’s with you?” he teases fondly, brushing the snow from Jon’s hair with the hand that isn’t trapped in his pocket. “We have snow in London - I’ve heard you complaining about it plenty of times.”
“Well, yes, but this is our first snow. Together. It’s worth...noticing.” Jon looks a little embarrassed, and a lot determined, and Martin loves him so much it hurts. He lets his palm settle against Jon’s cheek, and Jon leans into it, closing his eyes.
The hand holding his tugs him forward until they’re almost flush, and Jon’s other hand goes around his neck to pull him down. They’ve done this so many times now that it feels like second nature, yet Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever lose the thrill he feels when Jon kisses him, slow and sweet. By the time they part, he doesn’t feel cold anymore.
Warm as a breathless kiss beneath the first snowfall, he thinks. That might work.
“You’ve just given me a line for a poem,” he says. Jon blinks, looking flustered, and smiles.
“Oh?” he says. “What is it?”
“You’ll know when you read it,” Martin tells him. They stay there for a while longer, hands tucked together into the pocket of Jon’s coat, watching the snow. Then they go home.